Battle Wounds
by derpette-Waffle
Summary: There was a time when the nightmares were only nightmares and the danger was not real –and that would adequately comfort his nephews so they might fall back asleep. But the horrific dreams were no longer just frightful images conjured in sleep, and there was no assurance that could make the danger fade into the quiet night.


Battle wounds that ached for years; wounds that cut so deep they never moved the same again; deaths of friends, deaths of lovers and family –they'd all suffered somehow. Thorin had once lie awake in bed wondering what grief would strike his people next, because he was hedging the gap between young enough to think the gods would smile on them with the sun, and old enough to learn the tides may turn by the moon. He'd learned in quick time, so very young indeed.

He was less than a century in this world when the aching insomnia ebbed away with the cause of it, as life seemed less and less a constant in itself. He'd lost trust but lost no more sleep.

Now he lay awake in bed again, the down mattress much more comfortable than the straw bunks he'd shared with others as they shared in their exile. But tonight it was for an entirely different reason, because he could not sleep again, not while the screams echoed through the halls and made his bedroom walls quiver with the force of the terror.

There was a time (Thorin has never realized just how blessed a time it was) when the nightmares were only nightmares. He or his sister could tell either trembling boy in her arms, or hanging from his shirt sleeve, that the dreams were nothing more than dreams and the danger was not real –and that would adequately comfort his nephews so they might fall back asleep. But the horrific dreams were no longer just frightful images conjured in sleep; they had evolved into blistering memories twisted and tainted by fear. And there was no assurance from a loving guardian that could make the danger fade into the quiet night.

They all bore wounds. Some were less visible than others.

Fili and Kili had known no terror, suffered no pain or doubt, before they'd plunged so willingly into battle –now they knew the pain of war and blood and death nearly every night. They'd writhe in their beds until jolted by some awful thing back into the world of the living; the younger was more apt to wake up screaming, and the piercing sound would echo still hours after the danger had passed.

The Company, and those who knew and cared for the young (too young) princes, felt a pang of their own dread when they heard the cries, or saw the death reflected in blue or brown eyes that had once held such life. They felt the pain the boys suffered as if it were their own, and some would sleep again only to suffer nightmares themselves. But if screams reverberated through the grand mountain halls, it was always from the burning throat of the younger prince.

Fili was quieter in his suffering as he always was. He would not scream or cry out, would deny being exhausted or upset when one noticed how violently he shook following a particularly awful night. The Golden Prince was tarnished, bright eyes dull and timid, voice coming softly or not at all.

Thorin knew very little of what his nephews (his little warrior princes, by gods) experienced in their horrid dreams. But when he'd be awoken by their terror, he watched, he listened, and he came to two conclusions. The first: Kili's visions were of indiscriminate death in battle –everywhere he looked he saw more bloodshed, more pain, and all of it he was helpless to stop. It likely was the death of his brother that jolted him awake in loud fits that would last hours into the night. The second: Fili was also awoken by an image of his brother's death, but it was this image that was central to the panic and fear that would leave him so drained upon waking. He'd awaken having already seen a blade, an arrow, an axe, rip through dream-Kili's flesh and leave the little brother dead at his feet. Fili would wake up in a terrible panic, spring from his bed and manage –shaking so violently— to get next door to his brother's bedroom to assure that the other was indeed still alive when everything was telling him he was left alone.

They had each other to comfort and comfort them, but it could only ease the pain after it had already been inflicted. They'd move through mornings and evenings as if wafting through the halls. They did not speak, except to each other in hushed tones; they failed to join their friends and loved ones at every communal meal; the real world was suddenly not as real as they'd believed it, because when they'd gone to war, their innocence had been torn from them like flesh from bone.

They did not sleep; they did not eat. They survived the battle only to die every night since.

To some dwarves who had long ago accepted the fleeting tendency of life, the behaviors of the princes were more of a nuisance than anything else (something of great friction with those who felt nothing but sympathy for the suffering princes –Thorin was the most livid.) Had they forgotten what it was like to believe life something worth protecting, something terrifying to see lost? He could not speak for them. He prayed he would never believe as they did.

Kili was screaming still. Surely his brother was in there with him; Fili would be relieved to see him alive after a traumatizing nightmare of his own but heartbroken to see him suffering so endlessly. They'd cling to each other: finding some solace in the other's presence, seeking comfort for what broke them so completely, and praying that the pain might not come again the next night, and the night after, and again…

And all the King could do was to listen to the resilient terror through his pillow and pray with them.


End file.
